Itachi's Will of Fire
by Daastan Go
Summary: Itachi tirelessly searches for Leaf's will, and he may have found it at last!


**Itachi's Will of Fire**

 **Disclaimer** : Naruto is Kishimoto's property. I'm not making any money from this story.

 **Warning** : Morbid Content.

 **AN** : This was written at the cheeky request of ' **The Jingo** '.

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Upon the sea of winds, a briny odour reached out to him with hands gentle and cold. It was a cold evening. A light had spread out upon the horizon, a cloth dyed in passion. Wind swept through his hair as he gazed up to see the sun shine brightly all over the cracked countenance of Senju Hashirama.

His countenance was more sober than his own ancestor's mien. There was a trace of arrogance about Madara's lips: deft hands of a craftsman had not been clever in concealing this artless blunder. He forgot to etch Sharingan into his gaze, too: a stone was too lifeless to measure such intensity.

At seven, Itachi was such a sweet, an intuitive boy still—wind in his hair, sun in his eyes, will in his soul. A new firmament of age unfurled and time opened up its arms before him, beckoning him to come forth, press his head against its supple breast, and suckle on the teat of revelations sweet.

Tear lines were set deep into his cheeks, grooves of untold experiences. His eyes saw what others could not see, could not tell, could not . . . feel. Yes, his gaze was an entity that had come unto him when he squeezed out of his mother's slit, wailing and unsure, and clove to him to become an extension of his senses.

His little tongue rolled out words with such religious exultation that, whenever Hiruzen heard him speak, he tripped over his feet like a tit-suckling babe. His little breast was a home to more secrets than the crack between this statue's tough hillocks was to all manner of . . . _things_.

So little Itachi craned his neck and looked up, staring beyond the cold-stone fabric flowing in wind's imagination that would never be able to lift it even if it were to try. Such was the might of Hashirama's stature and bearing. It fascinated him and left him in awe; the joy in his heart knew no bounds.

As the sun went under the airy waves that rode upon its searing fires, a hand of gloom and silence came over the statue's face: in silence it gazed with a challenge upon his foe's, Madara's, sharp contours. He sighed and searched for a way to climb up into the heart of man who had created Konoha with his ancestor—his heart was gold; his features, saintly.

He had to locate the bud of Hashirama's secrets and lose himself before the undulations of love for his Leaf. A smile crossed his lips and slowly moulded his eyes, but the cherished red of his clan did not rise for battle. He had quenched its thirst with a cool search for reason.

So began Itachi's journey: he walked around the statue, searched for a way to make it inside. A fissure in one of the still-and-fluttering folds revealed itself beneath the cast of going shadows. His smile widened, cheeks reddening like juicy apples.

Wind was cool on his back when he crawled into the tiny hole, sounds of water falling on the stones outside, becoming a faraway noise. It was so dark inside, an invasion of shadows, but he did not relent and grasped the string that loosened vivid floods into his eyes.

Itachi's heartbeat was a new instrument in young and uncertain hands, pounding out a lovely rhythm in his breast. With skin soaked in his clan's chakra, his hand curved around the smooth stone and got a firm grip upon little bumps on the inside of the dust-coated stone-garment. It did not stir at his touch, still quiet and frozen and heavy, allowing him to climb further up towards the dark, dark valley between the tantalizing hills.

Like the practiced hand of a lover in heat, Itachi slipped silently towards the shadowed groin of the long-dead Senju leader—a little finger worming its way towards the barren bud of dried-up pleasures. Inside, a mighty cock was built to withstand the test of time and age; Itachi was sure he had found nothing dangling between the manly thighs when he had taken a peek up Madara's flowing pants; his Hokage curiosity was often dictated by such frivolous, sexual adventures.

A strange odour rose from the cock, tiny cracks choked up with fungi and ants, as his hand took hold of a round stone ridge. Itachi found a solid foothold there, too, and mounted the big cock like a crazed little whore; nearly weaving his budding body into the lively form of the motionless stone-cock; swaying back and forth, back and forth, back and forth to excite the little prick tingling there for greater goods and deeper causes. He was filling up to the brims with a silent gush of ideals and rapturous threads of love—a _Will!_

Itachi did not stop, surrounded his supple body with more chakra, proceeded to find solace beyond the dangerously bloated, round bollocks-like hills in the carefully crafted crack between the cleft in the Senju's cheeks: the root of a Senju catamite's pleasures. The boy, who possessed Hokage's wisdom at age seven, reasoned: you never could locate a back-channel without getting your bearing's first; bollocks always, always dangled snugly between an arsehole and a prick. (Good Sage envied his _penetrating_ insight!)

The crack was big enough for a whole man to go through: Itachi was too small to squeeze and power through the stone sphincter; it was an easy journey into the tantalizing depths of a legendary Senju's bowls. A smell of foetid love and wordless winds invaded the space, overcoming his senses, crushing them into submission that, between his shivering hips, his little prick bloomed, and he whispered as though possessed: " _Will of Fire!_ "

So Itachi sat down, shaking fingers going underneath the shorts and taking a strong grip on the flesh rising out of slumber after the one-sided frottage, from a Leaf's intrepid masturbator such as he. He was not ashamed that the secret room was filled with waves upon waves of his ragged breaths, hips heaving, hand pumping, nostrils filling with scents of Hashirama's artificial buttocks, bollocks, and anus.

Itachi had gone in _too_ _deep_ this time in search of Leaf's Truth and Uchiha Lies; and here they lay, faceless phantoms drifting like bygone stones, suffused with anal scents that whispered, in lascivious and holy tongues, the secrets of Leaf's future and prosperity.

His small voice came out as vulgar and coarse moans, accentuated ever so often by the sweetness of an approaching release from his ripened loins: this place had made a man out of a boy! Then, as sun went down and cold air came rushing up, stabbing through the sickly musk of Hashirama's bowls, he erupted in crushing bursts that bowed his back and made him a slave of Senju-scents forever . . . ah, the rapture! The Fire! The Will!

A numbing pleasure spread across the back of his eyes; and he felt content, falling back on the dirt-floor, enjoying a quiet moment of respite at having found the Truth of Leaf's mores and ethos up in the arse of a stone-statue . . . in that single moment, he was broken and remade: a True Shinobi of Leaf; a True Hokage!

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 **The End**


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